‘How astute. But why? What’s so special about Tate?’
He paused for several beats, wondering how much to tell her. Thrown a small bone, it might be enough to put her off-track for the time being.
‘Nothing, as such,’ he said finally, choosing his words with care. This could come back and bite him on the arse if he said the wrong thing. ‘Tate’s old school; knows things we’d rather he didn’t get prised out of him by a clever hack. He’s one of those intelligence officers who crept up on the outside rails without being noticed; diligent, solid, good at his job, does what he’s told most of the time.’
‘But?’
‘He can be bolshie when he thinks he’s right. It’s best we keep him out of the way.’ He could have added that Harry Tate had refused to play the game of musical chairs which passed for a career path around here, but he’d been around long enough and deep enough to know where several skeletons were buried. Even if he didn’t know that he knew. It might be a good time to ensure it stayed that way.
The main fact was that Tate, good and obedient servant that he was, was feeling justifiably annoyed at being left dangling out in the Essex marshland. Reason enough to move him out of anyone’s sight and hearing before he exploded.
Rudmann seemed satisfied. ‘How long will he be there?’
‘For as long as we think fit. He’ll be allowed back eventually – subject to safeguards, of course. No contact with home and hearth, all communications with Thames House to come via his head of station. Even his family won’t know where he is.’ Not that Tate had any, he recalled. Divorced and likely to stay that way. An odd fish. Probably a drinker, on the quiet. With a shudder, he realized the man actually had the potential to be the worst kind of spook to have on your hands when the shit hit the fan.
‘Who else knows about this place?’ Rudmann dragged him back.
‘Six. But nobody else.’ He held his breath, aware that he was on thin ice. What if she asked why this had not come up before?
‘I see. How often do you . . . use it?’
‘Rarely, so far. As I said, it’s fairly new. Experimental, you might say.’ He forestalled further questions by asking, ‘Is there anything else?’
Rudmann shook her head. There was something of the prude in her expression, as if finding something about him and his world which she did not like. Even so, it was evident that she was fascinated by what he had just told her.
‘What on earth do you call this place?’
‘There is no official designation.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘If nobody has logged it, nobody will find it.’
There was a lengthy silence, then, ‘But you must have a name for it.’
‘Yes. We call it Red Station.’
SIX
Harry Tate celebrated his birthday with a miniature of Bell’s whisky while waiting for his bag to come off the plane. Between sips, he was trying to convince himself he’d been born lucky.
There was little talk in the drab terminal; most of his fellow passengers were in deep shock after an aborted first landing. About to drop on to the runway, the pilot of the Antonov AN 24 had suddenly hauled the nose up without warning, the ageing engines screaming under full power as they fought to claw the aircraft back into the thin air above Mukhrani airport, Georgia. Cries of alarm in several languages had joined the sounds of tumbling crockery in the galley. But the near-stall manoeuvre had paid off, dragging them in a juddering curve away from the airport and out over the open countryside, vibration shaking every rivet and leaving behind a heavy flow of muddy exhaust fumes like a giant crop-duster.
As they had circled for another try, the reason for the go-around became clear: a green armoured personnel carrier was sitting squarely in the middle of the single runway. A volley of swearing had echoed from the flight deck, followed by a burst of radio chatter. Then silence. Nobody in the cabin spoke, the atmosphere changed instantly from dulled relief at journey’s end to one loaded with tension at the implications of what might be happening on the ground.
Whatever the outcome of the radio exchange, the aircraft circled and lined up again. With minimum fuss, it sank on to its landing path and touched down with a heavy thump, causing several overhead lockers to open and cascade a variety of hand-luggage on to the heads below.
As they flashed past the APC, which had pulled back on to the grass, Harry recognised it as a Cobra, an image dredged up from a distant weapons-recognition class. Perhaps the local tourist board had decided that meeting incoming aircraft with light armoured vehicles was the latest way to impress visitors.
After the air-conditioned cabin, the atmosphere outside the plane was muggy, and the walk across the oily tarmac to the terminal was like stepping through a steam room. Beyond the single-storey structure, the distant line of the Caucasus Mountains rose to the north, their jagged peaks hazy against a dirty sky. Elsewhere, the view was of shabby hangars and smaller, unnamed buildings set back from the runway, surrounded by scrubby grass. The tang of aviation fuel hanging in the air mixed disturbingly with the acrid fog of cheap cigarettes.
The combined aroma made Harry feel nauseous. It wasn’t just the landing though; he’d been cheated of sleep by a fat journalist from Ohio named Carl Higgins, who had insisted on talking non-stop about his family.
Passport control consisted of a pair of plywood booths with edgy-looking uniformed men inside and soldiers in camouflage outside. To add to the lack of welcome, none of the video screens around the walls appeared to be working and there was no air-conditioning to combat the oppressive humidity. Throughout, the overhead lights were a dull yellow, adding to an atmosphere of heavy gloom.
After nearly an hour, during which his passport was scoured twice at length from front to back, Harry arrived at the baggage reclaim hall, another shed tacked on to the arrivals hall. He crossed to the window overlooking the landing area, where a team of baggage handlers was abusing luggage off his flight. His own bag was in there somewhere, but he’d long ago given up taking anything of value on foreign trips. Experience had shown that it was better to move lean and light, unencumbered by unnecessary weight.
Another APC lumbered into view on the far side of the airport. The rear hatch swung open and several armed men in camouflage uniform dropped out and scurried away into a row of bushes. Practice or reaction? The sight made him uneasy.
He caught sight of his reflection in the glass. Solid and squalid, his father would have said, in need of some exercise, rest and healthy food. He wondered what it was about him that made Jean smile. He knew he looked pasty, with red-shot eyes under a brush-cut of dark hair peppered with hints of grey. Where he was going, the exercise might be guaranteed, but the rest and healthy food might have to wait.
One of the baggage handlers pulled a black holdall out of the aircraft and drop-kicked it into a wire cage, then held up his arms to acknowledge applause from his co-workers. When he saw Harry watching, he made a short, one-handed gesture. It might have been obscene, might not. Harry responded with a genial tilt of his whisky miniature and went back to waiting for the carousel to start up. At least his bag would be easy to spot, as it now had a large dusty boot-print embedded in one side.
He
